


The Way That We Are (I Can't Tell if I'm Asleep or Awake)

by orphan_account



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-12
Updated: 2010-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:16:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He does what he usually does when he can’t figure out what the fuck to do – he goes to Mal." Eames asks Arthur if he loved Mal. Arthur says yes, and then he feels like an ass, and he has to explain. So he shows Eames what he and Mal were, through his dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way That We Are (I Can't Tell if I'm Asleep or Awake)

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by fishspots @ lj. Title lyric from Ra Ra Riot's "Too Too Too Fast".

Arthur finds it almost easy to breathe as he sits on the familiar couch in Cobb’s living room. He’d helped Mal pick it out seven whole fucking years ago, right before her wedding, before they’d moved in here. Mal had purposely gone shopping when her fiancé was working, so that she could drag Arthur along to buy furniture that was actually _nice_. Of course, there are more recent touches of Cobb here and there – the brassy new light fixture on the ceiling and the bulky side table that had appeared one day. But the couch is all Mal, floral, but in dark tones like the rest of the house.

And he doesn’t know when this became a regular thing, everyone together just sitting the fuck around in Cobb’s house – Dom and Mal’s house – relaxed and _normal_ like they didn’t just perform a ridiculous, complex, dangerous procedure that’s changing one of the biggest corporations on the news. Like they shouldn’t all be in different parts of the world by now, a few weeks later. Like Eames shouldn’t be somewhere like fucking Mombasa, somewhere Arthur hates, and only mostly because Eames is there and he isn’t. Like it isn’t weird for the best new team in the business of dream theft to be sitting around playing fucking tea party on a Tuesday afternoon, instead of doing _anything else_.

They’ve somehow stuck together, with the excuse of a new job on the horizon.

The call had come two weeks ago, just days after they set foot in America. They still spent much of their time sitting around on Cobb’s couch watching the news, reading newspapers, and even checking fucking Google to keep track of how things were going in Robert Fischer’s world. Saito had already followed through with his end of the bargain, but Cobb and Arthur, in their years as a team, have never done things by halves.

Arthur is pretty sure he’s the only one who caught the slight desperation in Cobb’s eyes in those first few days. But the others probably knew what would happen if it turned out the inception didn’t take after all. Cobb’s guilt – well. It wouldn’t be pretty.

He’d been sitting on the couch sipping iced tea with Ariadne and sorting through the eight different newspapers Eames had somehow produced that morning. Eames had snatched up the funnies Arthur’d sorted out and made a comment about _real tea_ and Yusuf had wholeheartedly agreed from where he was napping in the armchair. They’d been dwindling then, near the end of the week, when Arthur’s cell phone had rung.

He’d taken the call in the kitchen and called Cobb in to join him afterwards, trying not to be suspicious and probably failing.

“We’ve got a job offer,” Arthur said quietly.

He expected Cobb to immediately say no. He’d been home with his kids for less than seven days and he had every reason to say no.

“What are the details?” Cobb asked.

“It’s a relatively simple extraction right here in LA, for a mogul who thinks his wife is cheating on him. It shouldn’t be that difficult in principle, but his wife has experience with dream sharing, so it’d have to be elegant. Probably two levels. Probably a special compound. And we’d most likely need someone she trusts.”

His voice most certainly did _not_ almost crack in the middle of the last sentence.

Cobb ran his hand through his hair, pacing a little. They’d need a damn good architect, and an experienced chemist. And a flawless forger.

He expected Cobb to say no.

Cobb turned to the living room. The other three were laughing in there, and Cobb had a look on his face, close to the one he gets when he stops in the middle of working to stare at his kids, like he’s waiting for them to run off without him ever seeing their faces again. And he’d turned back to Arthur and nodded.

So here they are, in Cobb’s living room, together. For now.

Though Ariadne is arguably barely past childhood herself, she simply doesn’t have a way with children. James – whose terrible twos seem to have carried into the next year – is sitting on her lap. If “sitting” is defined very loosely. He’s got a teacup in one hand and thank God it’s plastic because Ariadne would probably be bleeding by now otherwise, the way he’s flailing it around. Ariadne’s scarf is around his neck as a bib and she looks about ready to dump him on the floor and walk away, glaring at Eames the way she usually does before shooting someone in a dream. Eames just sits there across the foot-tall table laughing at her. He throws his head back, giving a big belly laugh, when Ariadne actually lets out a yelp as the cup makes contact with her kneecap. He looks as though he might topple over onto the carpet soon and there are tears in his eyes.

This is when Arthur chooses to intervene, though Ariadne’s sanity is not exactly his only motive.

“Here,” he says simply, picking up James, who clings to him immediately. Ariadne flees to the couch, nestling in between Cobb and Yusuf, throwing a _thanks_ over her shoulder as Arthur takes a seat in front of the ridiculously low table. He folds his legs in front of him and sets James on his lap, finely-pressed pants be damned.

“Uncle Arthur,” Phillipa says, “do you want some tea?” She’s perched on one of the little chairs, a crown crooked on her mussed hair and an expectant smile on her face. Her sun dress is frilly and pink and polka-dotted. She’s five years old and just lost her first tooth and Arthur is not a man who uses the world “adorable” frequently, but damn does Phillipa earn the title.

“Sure,” he answers, prying the cup out of James’ grip to hand it over. James doesn’t mind, and decides his next toy will be Arthur’s waistcoat. The buttons are too small for his fingers, and he’s silent and squinting in his concentration, just like his father.

“Can you pour, Uncle Eames?” Phillipa hands over the cup to Eames, who’s still chuckling from his spot on the floor.

“But of course.” He fills the teacup (which is only a couple of inches tall anyway) with iced tea from the pitcher and hands it to Arthur with a wink, saying, “Here you go, darling.”

Arthur steadfastly ignores the comment and drinks the tea in one gulp, regardless of germs, because Phillipa is clearly expecting him to.

“Uncle Eames, why do you call Uncle Arthur that?” Phillipa asks.

“What?” Eames asks, looking away from James, who’s still valiantly struggling with the second button down Arthur’s vest.

“Why do you call him darling?”

Yusuf chokes on his (real) tea, over on the couch, and Ariadne gasps audibly, clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. Cobb squints.

Arthur freezes with his teacup hovering a few inches away from the surface of the table and glances at Eames, waiting for the simple answer: _It pisses him off_.

“I suppose you won’t accept ‘I’ll tell you when you’re older’ as an answer, will you, love?” Eames asks. He seems purely amused, but he’s looking at Phillipa and no one else.

She sticks her bottom lip out at him and bats her eyelashes slightly, a look she’s undoubtedly adopted from Ariadne.

“Oh, pet, you know that only works on Arthur,” Eames scolds, wagging a finger in Phillipa’s face and ignoring the sound of protest Arthur makes. He does _not_ give in that easily, not to Phillipa or Ariadne and especially not to Eames.

“Well then why won’t you tell me? Daddy says if somebody won’t answer a question then the answer must be good. Right, Daddy?”

“Of course,” Cobb says. He’s still staring at Eames with something akin to suspicion, the kind he usually saves for projections and marks, a look that – not that Arthur wants to admit it – is almost _protective_.

“Ah,” Eames says. “Well.” He shoots a look at Arthur, but his face is carefully blank, and then he looks at Cobb, almost nervously. Eames doesn’t _do_ nervous, so what the _fuck_?

“Mommy called Uncle Arthur that sometimes,” Phillipa elaborates. She doesn’t seem particularly upset about this, just contemplative, really, but Arthur feels his lungs pull, and he’s afraid to look over at Cobb, and this might be what tunnel vision is like, he thinks, as he stares at and only at Eames’ expression of flat-out guilt.

“That she did,” Eames says after a moment, and that slight waver in the soft tone would sound blatantly strained coming from anyone else. “That’s where I picked up on it.”

“Mommy said you only call people silly names to make them mad,” Phillipa says, adjusting her crown.

“I won’t deny that.” Eames smiles, eyes flickering to Arthur for a moment, and Arthur’s lungs still aren’t working properly but maybe it’s for a slightly different reason now.

“She said it’s only okay to make someone mad if they’ll still know you love them.”

She’s five years old, she means it innocently, she has no idea what she’s suggesting, and yet Arthur’s chest is on fire because he hasn’t taken a breath since – he doesn’t know how long his windpipe’s been clamped shut for.

Eames’ shoulders are stiffer than he’d normally let show but his voice is still warm when he says, “Your mother was a very smart woman.”

Arthur bolts.

He stands up, and the only reason he doesn’t trip in the process is because he’s just barely aware he still has James in his arms, and he dumps the boy on Cobb’s lap and he’s out the front door before he can think about how _fucking obvious_ a move this is and then he’s leaning on the porch railing with both arms, gasping.

And there’s a broad, warm palm rubbing his lower back and his lungs don’t know what to do and he chokes on that, air caught somewhere in his chest, and Eames says, “Breathe, love,” right into his ear and Arthur does. Arthur lets Eames pull him close and fists his hands in the back of that ugly fucking paisley shirt and breathes the line of Eames’ throat, the hot skin behind his ear, and Eames’ exhale is his inhale as their mouths are suddenly _thisclose_.

“Eames,” he rasps.

“You know I mean it, Arthur,” and it’s not a pet name, it’s his _name_ , and that means it’s serious. “Don’t give me any of your bullshit. You know I’ve meant it, darling.” And the last word is a caress of lips on lips and Eames steals Arthur’s breath again, the bastard, pushing and nipping until Arthur has to pull away, and Eames says it again, he says, “Breathe, love,” right into Arthur’s mouth, and again, he _does_.

And then Eames pulls away and smiles at Arthur just a little, and Arthur can’t take it. He steps back, he looks away for a moment, and he breathes, and he says, “ _Eames_ ,” like he doesn’t know what to make of the word, and then he leaves.

He walks to his car and he drives away and Eames lets him.

He does what he usually does when he can’t figure out what the fuck to do – he goes to Mal.

~

Mal is standing in the center of their backyard – of her parent’s house, the one that’ll go to her and Cobb, to Mal and Dom as soon as they’re married – and laughing. She looks perfect, more so than she ever could in real life, outside of Arthur’s head. He knows she had flaws, certainly, and had often informed her of them. But here, in a dream, she’s quite literally glowing, ethereal.

She’s wearing one of those delicate button-fronts with cap sleeves and a light floral pattern to it, and a flowy dark skirt high around her waist. Her bright red kitten heels – scuffed with love, she would say - tap her arrival along the porch when she runs in and out of the house, and the only jewelry she wears today are her mother’s pearl earrings and the ring, glinting just slightly. There’s an eggshell sweater, scoop-necked and pearl-buttoned, too light for this weather to begin with, folded over a chair somewhere deep within the house, long forgotten. Dom runs his hands up and down her goose-bumped arms every few minutes, and she only lets him do it because he wants to, not because she’s cold. She was always warm, Arthur thinks, as she smiles over her shoulder at her fiancé, eyes crinkling.

Arthur leans on the railing, in the shade of the porch. It’s breezy, despite the sun, and he shivers a little. He’s allowed himself to be dressed in what he would have worn back then, his pants less firmly pressed and his jacket removed and his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a waistcoat not even something he could have identified yet. His tie is loose and flapping just a little. It looks ridiculous. He can’t be bothered to care.

He smiles as he watches Dom spin Mal across the grass, weaving between tables to the scratchy record tune Miles has lofting out the open back door. Party guests are watching with equal rapture, because Arthur doesn’t know what else they’d possibly be doing.

Lifting the wine glass to his lips, Arthur savors the taste, though it’s not as good as the actual, century-old wine Miles had somehow produced for the engagement party. When he rests his forearm back against the banister, glass loose in his grasp, another mostly-full glass clinks against his.

“Cheers, love,” Eames says softly, leaning in a similar fashion and staring out at the dancing couple. His smile is somewhat bemused, and Arthur doesn’t blame him. “Is your projection of Cobb more rhythmic than the one we know and love, or is he actually that good a dancer?”

“Mal made him take lessons from her parents.” Arthur doesn’t let the smile slip from his face just because Eames has shown up.

“So this is a memory, then.” Eames takes a sip of wine and doesn’t look at him, doesn’t press.

“I don’t do this often.”

“I don’t think you would. But you can’t blame me for wanting to know why, darling.”

The word is only half out of his mouth and there’s a shattering of glass. One of the partygoers has thrown a shoe at Eames, knocking his wine right out of his hand. Mal and Dom have finally stopped dancing, and are glaring at Eames, at the intruder.

Arthur says, very loudly, “Shit.”

“What’s that, pet?” Eames asks, dodging another shoe and inching back toward the doorway. Arthur’s projections are advancing slowly, though Dom and Mal remain still. For now.

“Get inside the goddamn house,” he shouts. “They’re not going to stop.”

Eames’ eyes widen comically, though that might be because of the chair which an old man throws with surprising agility and accuracy through the doorway he’d just been standing in.

“Well, then, do you think you could grab a knife or something before your lovely subconscious decides to murder me the fun way?” he calls.

Arthur hurries into the dining room after Eames, slamming the door shut.

“Look, Eames, I –”

“Oh, love, you don’t have to apologize for this,” he says, eyes softer than Arthur has seen before, or at least more than he’s ever bothered to notice. “I know it was almost as hard for you to kill the projections of her as it was for Cobb.”

Miles promptly enters from the kitchen, shoots Arthur a fatherly smile, and stabs Eames in the chest with a knife.

~

Arthur gasps slightly as he awakes, the only hint toward the fact that he’d gone and stabbed himself rather than wait for the timer to run out. Eames is hovering over him, doing his best to look innocent, like he hadn’t been contemplating kicking Arthur awake himself just a moment ago. Arthur tries to smile, but it doesn’t really work.

Eames sits back down on the edge of Arthur’s bed. It’s really not shocking that Eames is here, in Arthur’s apartment. It’s not shocking that Eames knew he’d be here because he knows Arthur has his own PASIV. Or that he knew Arthur would hide in his dreams. Or that he was able to get the fuck into the apartment in the first place, really. He probably has a copy of the key, probably has for years.

Arthur’s apartment – the one he’s barely entered since Mal – is a mess to begin with, kind of dusty and dark and it doesn’t look like home at all, hasn’t been for ages, and Arthur’s made no impression in the last few weeks of taking refuge here. Eames, somehow, had never come inside during all those years, and yet here he is. And yet it’s not surprising for him to be here now.

“Arthur,” Eames says. It’s not a pet name. It’s only his name again. “If that was the real reason you didn’t want me stealing the nickname from her,” he begins, faltering, so unusual for him. “I know it was hard right after she died. I have the fucking scar to prove it, don’t I?”

The first time Eames had called Arthur by the pet name after Mal’s death – well. Eames had needed stitches through his damn eyebrow from a particularly misguided suckerpunch and Arthur had the worst hangover of his life the next morning (although he probably would have anyway).

He’s not quite looking at Arthur anymore as he continues, “But Arthur, you could have – you should have just told me to stop using it if you really needed me to. I know it makes you think of her, but if making you think of her hurts you like that, even still…”

“Hurts me like what?” Arthur asks tonelessly. Eames is staring at the floor.

“Did you love Mal?” His voice is steady, too steady.

“Of course I love her,” Arthur replies blankly. Then he shakes his head. “No, you don’t – you don’t understand. I was there before Cobb – we – you don’t understand.”

“I’d like to.” Eames looks down at the PASIV, at the wires still entangled between them. “Show me, Arthur.”

It’s questioning. He won’t push. But there’s something so entirely honest in Eames’ expression that Arthur feels it would be cruel not to give in. And yet.

“We shouldn’t. We’re not supposed to.”

“You’re not Cobb,” Eames says sharply. “You won’t get trapped.” Then, softly, “I won’t let you.”

He hits the white button and lies down next to Arthur and Arthur closes his eyes and feels his breath slow as the Somnacin spreads through his veins.

~

It’s bright. Arthur remembers thinking it was inappropriately sunny on campus that day. It’s green and there’s a gentle breeze and it’s way too perfect. The weather had not felt right, mocking him.

He’s speed-walking to class, cutting between projections who buzz past, determined as he had been. They’re all dressed too nicely for college students, all classy, with briefcases and cups of coffee and bags under their eyes. Eames follows behind him, elbowing projections out of the way when necessary.

“Love, what’s going on?”

Arthur’s phone rings. He stops walking – the projections part around him – and produces the old early-millennium piece-of-shit technology from his pocket and hands it to Eames. The caller ID says _Aunt Dora_.

“Arthur, doll,” he hears faintly. Eames’ eyes widen at the sobs coming from the other end of the line. “Arthur, hun, your parents. They’re gone. Their plane went down. I’m so sorry, baby, are you okay – class? You have class? Of – of course. Okay. Call me later, okay, Arthur? Call me. Please.”

The line goes dead. Eames is staring at Arthur, and while his expression isn’t pitiful, it’s close. Arthur takes the phone back and walks to class. Everything will play out around them. He doesn’t need to react appropriately. Events will still occur as they once did. He’s tried before to change things, but the memories don’t respond – they remain as they were.

They walk into a lecture hall filled with students. Miles stands at the front. But he moves in a blur, making no sound, and finishes up only moments later, the classroom emptying between one blink and the next. Arthur has no idea what was taught in his architecture class that day.

“What’s going –” Eames starts to ask, but then Miles speaks clearly.

“Mr. Smith,” he says. “Are you unwell?”

Everything he says after that is indistinct and garbled together, though his face is a mask of concern. Arthur points to the front row, where Miles is staring with growing trepidation.

“That’s where I’m having a meltdown.”

Eames makes this sad little noise in his throat, his knuckles brushing against the back of Arthur’s hand. He’s visibly restraining himself from doing anything more.

“Mr. Smith. _Arthur_ ,” Miles says clearly, suddenly. “I’d like to introduce you to someone.”

The scene hums – quite literally makes a humming noise around them as everything goes dark. Eames grasps at Arthur’s elbow, and drops his hand quickly when it’s bright again. They’re in a musky café. It’s darkly lit but Mal shines, the glow of the candles on their table illuminating her in a way it couldn’t possibly have in real life. Her hair should be coifed unevenly and her mascara should be smudged and her lipstick faded. Her shirt should be too loose and her jeans too tight. But she’s impeccable. She rests her cheek in her palm and smiles at the vacant chair across from her, stirring her coffee idly. She’s _lovely_.

“I think I can help you,” she says. “My father told me all about what happened. You’re sad, he says, but you’re not coping.” She laughs at whatever it was Arthur had said. “Oh, you silly boy, of course I don’t know you. Not yet. But we’re going to fix that, yes?”

To Eames’ ears, it probably sounds like she’s building up to propositioning Arthur or something. And maybe it had to Arthur at the time, just a little.

“I have taken a few psychology classes – no, I’m getting my masters in architecture, thank you very much, like I hear ,em>you are. I keep changing my mind about what I want to do. I’ve studied some psychology, and I think I can help you.”

“Mal thought she could do everything, and wasn’t often wrong,” Arthur says quietly. His voice is fonder than he’d usually permit. Eames is a warm presence behind him, close but not touching, like he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what’s okay.

“Arthur, dear,” Mal says. “I am going to make you happy again.”

“She was right,” Arthur breathes, and the scene fizzes away – Eames’ fingers brush his arm in the momentary darkness – and reopens in a lavish restaurant, all high ceilings and grand windows and gold lighting. Mal herself is in a shimmering gold dress, low-cut with a slit up the thigh, and under the table her heels lie on the floor, next to her curled up feet. She’s always lovely.

“Arthur, dear,” she laughs, “I believe my father is trying to set us up.”

There’s a grin on his face. He can’t help it as he watches Mal tilt her head back, curls spilling past her shoulders as she laughs so loudly projections nearby turn their heads. They all look charmed, though, of course they do. Eames is close, right next to Arthur, and stiff. Arthur shifts just slightly, letting his arm rest against Eames’.

“He knows you’re my best friend. It only took him about a year to figure it out, of course, genius that he is. But he still thinks we would be better _together_.” She hisses out the last word, narrowing her eyes and making it ugly, but the grin that splits her face a moment later is marvelous. She reaches over and pats at where Arthur’s hand must have been, nearly dancing in her seat. He’d been blushing, not making eye contact, but smiling all the same.

“Oh, I give him every excuse,” she crows, delighted. “I remind him you’re four years younger than me, and he asks why I’m friends with you at all if that’s an issue. I tell him you don’t even really like women to begin with – oh, shush, you know it’s true and nobody in my family gives a flying fuck about that, pardon my French – and he tells me I could convince you otherwise. Honestly, Arthur, I think my father loves you more than I do.”

Eames snorts, finally pressing his arm back into Arthur’s and keeping it there when the world fades away, not giving him time between memories, moving too quickly for him to try to do something stupid, not letting him linger like he’s done before, keeping him from settling in.

Then they’re in Arthur’s dorm room, and it’s dark and quiet and the roommate is nowhere to be found, and she’s curled in his bed, and Arthur had felt so young in just his boxers, with Mal curled around him, spooning him as she wears one of his t-shirts over her panties. She still has her socks on.

“You know,” Mal says sleepily. “It’s no wonder most of the campus doesn’t believe us when we tell them we’re not fucking.”

It hadn’t been weird. At first, sure, her openness, how comfortable she was around him, it had confused him and maybe intimidated him a little. But eventually it was normal, sleeping together without sleeping together. And then it wasn’t. Mal had gone and said something and it just wasn’t anymore.

She opens her eyes to glare at the invisible Arthur, and the real one flinches, shifting closer to Eames and out of her line of sight.

“That is not true! Why would I do this on purpose? It prevents me from getting dates just as much as it does for you.”

She sits up, staring into space in front of the bed, where Arthur had been pacing, and he wants to go to her, to stop this, but there’s no point. He clenches his fists at his sides and waits.

“Arthur,” Eames says, and maybe that’s concern in his voice.

“What does that mean?” Mal says, too loudly for the late hour. “What does that mean, it doesn’t matter if they think I’m taken? They come after me anyway – Arthur. You think they ignore you? You think nobody else sees you like I do? Maybe you should actually let other people in. Maybe then they would realize how perfect you are.”

She’s crying, and Arthur turns away, but then there’s Eames, and he’s got this look on his face that Arthur has never seen before and Arthur can’t take it and he leans into Eames’ arms when the open for him and pull him tight. He let himself press his face to Eames’ neck, forehead to his ear.

“Let somebody else love you, Arthur,” Mal sobs. “I’m trying to love somebody else, but I already have you, and it’s so hard, to love you and to love Dom so much, and I can’t just leave you when you won’t let anyone else be that person for you, Arthur.” She stands up and clutches at the invisible Arthur the way Eames grasps him now. “I love you. I’m in love with Dom. Don’t you want to be in love, Arthur? Don’t you want more than this?”

“Oh, pet,” Eames says into his hair as the scene evaporates, and Arthur doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t want to see Mal glaring at them from where she’s perched on her father’s desk. She’s dressed in her work clothes, all fancy with her hair back, but she’s pouting, arms crossed. Miles is standing behind her, not sure if it’s safe to sit back down, and Dom hovers nearby, looking between Mal and Arthur like he doesn’t know whose honor to defend.

“I won’t let you go through with this, Arthur. You still have another year of college to get through before you should even consider becoming involved in this – this dream business. It’s not safe and it’s not legal and I won’t let you do it.”

Eames tsks, because Mal had always been a hypocrite.

“Mallorie, dear,” Miles says impatiently.

“Mal,” Dom interrupts quietly, placing his hand on her shoulder. “You saw how good he is. We need him and you know it. Just because your father wouldn’t let you get involved until you graduated – don’t hold Arthur back. He’s perfect for this, Mal.”

“He was so earnest,” Eames says. “He’s gotten that back since Ariadne. A new student has done him wonders.”

Mal glares at Dom, who smiles at her just a little, encouraging, and Arthur can see it without watching. He knows these memories well enough. He’s not Cobb, but he knows his regrets too.

“Fine,” she snaps. “But promise me you won’t try to convince Arthur to work for you as soon as he graduates or something ridiculous like that. He has a future in architecture, you know, like I did, before you stole me away. Don’t you steal Arthur, too.”

Arthur lets out a dry huff of laughter against Eames’ neck, because Dom had gone and done exactly that, and they’d all seen it coming. He keeps his nose pressed to Eames’ collar as the world changes again, arms loose around his waist. He knows that Mal is standing behind him in her wedding dress, looking into the mirror but smiling at him over her shoulder, where a bundle of hair coils downward.

Arthur had been hovering, adjusting his bowtie and smoothing out his tux and generally not knowing what to do with himself and Mal had understood. As always.

“Arthur, dear,” she says softly. “One day you will know the difference between loving and being in love. One day there will be a feeling bigger than this one. I know it feels like there’s no more room in your heart – oh, shush,” she snaps suddenly, throwing her garter onto the vanity and glaring. “I’m trying to be encouraging here and you accuse me of being conceited. You’re a little brat and I don’t know why I help you.” It only takes moment for her to concede, “Oh, come here.”

He hears the rustle of her dress – poofy and princessy and anything but practical – as she turns to him, and slowly, he pulls away from Eames. Arthur lets Mal touch him, slide her hands down his arms until she clasps his hands in hers. There are no tears in her eyes. She’s too happy for that.

“Arthur,” she says, smiling up at him. “One day, you’ll feel it. It’s everywhere. It swallows you up and spits you out and leaves you gasping for breath and so, so confused. But it’s wonderful. You and me? We’re perfect. But this, this being in love, it’s tough. And it hurts. And it’s worth it, darling, it is so worth it.”

She kisses him on the cheek and heads out of the room, which vanishes. Eames comes and stands too close, their fingers brushing, as Mal paces – waddles – around her living room despite her belly. It’s the same living room they’d been in a few hours ago with that same damn couch. She keeps one hand on her rounded stomach at all times.

“I don’t see why this particular job needs to be done now anyway,” she rants, breathing a little too heavily for Arthur’s comfort even now. “We can’t wait a few more months until I have the baby? Another person is not necessary – yes, I know he’s good at what he does. Yes, I _know_ we were going to look into hiring a forger at some point – _what_?”

Mal stops her pacing, glaring at them, and Eames lets out a surprised chuckle. Arthur allows himself a small smile.

“Why would I have a problem with this forger in particular? I’d never met him before today. I don’t know where Dom met him years ago. I have no reason to dislike him, do I? All I know is what you and Dom told me, about how _amazing_ – don’t you dare! I am not jealous! I am hormonal but I am not jealous!”

Eames snorts, wrapping Arthur’s hand in his thoughtlessly. Arthur disguises the way his breath catches with a laugh and doesn’t quite grasp back.

“Besides,” Mal says, resuming her pacing, “you and he did not get along spectacularly either, did you? He seems to like you well enough but you weren’t very nice about his advances, now were you?”

Eames barks out a laugh at that, just as Mal glares at them again.

“Oh those were too advances, Arthur – _oh_.” Mal is wide-eyed and Arthur is _definitely_ not embarrassed. “You know. You damn well know those are advances, don’t you? _Oh._ Is that what that’s all about? You pretend to be annoyed by the little games? You play hard-to-get? I see through your plan, mister.”

“I think she understood how you feel about me light-years before you did, darling.” The endearment slips out thoughtlessly and he’s grinning but his voice isn’t teasing in the slightest. Arthur doesn’t say a word, but he holds Eames’ hand more firmly in his own as the room dissolves.

The crying is the first thing he registers. James, just a few months old, is cradled to Mal’s chest as she rocks in one of the porch chairs. She should look so much more exhausted than she does, smiling as she looks across the backyard.

Eames is there, playing with little Phillipa the way he does now. His hair is a mess and his clothes are appropriately ugly and grass-stained and his face is reddened and just a little smudged with dirt as he airplanes Phillipa across the yard. He doesn’t look perfect. He looks real.

“Arthur,” Mal says, quietly enough that she almost can’t be heard over James. “I think I love him, just a little. What do you think?”

It isn’t silent, but they’re quiet.

“I see you hurt,” she says. “I see you struggle. You try to fight it and you fight him and I see you overwhelmed and confused, Arthur, I know it. You don’t understand yet, I don’t think. But you will.”

“She knew,” Arthur whisper, gripping Eames’ hand too tightly when the backyard disappears, the world changing faster now, and Arthur can’t tell if he’s in control of that or not. They’re in the kitchen and Mal holds a knife too close to her arm as she stares longingly out the window.

“Arthur, dear.” Her voice is tired. “I’m not the one slipping. You don’t need me anymore.”

The noise that escapes his through is tiny and strangled and Eames hears it, of course, as Mal twirls the knife idly.

“Darling,” Eames says helplessly.

Mal fades.

They’re surrounded by buildings, still linked together, and the team stands a block or so away. They’re in Arthur’s dream, discussing with Saito how to go about the inception, getting Ariadne acclimated. From a distance, they watch Saito fall, then Cobb, then Ariadne; it looks strange without Arthur visible as he trains his gun on the center of each forehead, pulling the trigger to wake them up. The Arthur that is visible turns away as the distant Eames shoots himself with the gun he’d pulled out of Arthur’s grasp. The other Arthur, could they see him, would be walking toward them, stopping a few feet away, where Mal now stands.

Arthur studies her profile as she waits on the curb, dressed in a simple summer dress, her favorite yellow one with the tear in the collar she’d never gotten around to fixing, and she’s barefoot.

“Arthur, dear,” the projection always says, smiling so sweetly. Arthur lets his hand slip from Eames’ and goes to stand in front of her. He’d only first lived out this dream a month or so ago, but Mal barely looks older than she had when they met, despite the ten year gap. He can’t remember how much she’d aged in real life, how much older she’d looked when she died. He knows he looks ten years older, but Mal, Mal had seemed ageless, still does.

“Arthur, you’re ready,” she whispers, grasping his hands. “You know you don’t need me here. Let me go, darling. I know you understand now.” Mal glances toward the bodies lying in the street, to where Arthur had hesitated, where Eames had taken over with the gun. “You know you understand.”

It goes dark and it stays dark.

~

Arthur is breathing too heavily when he wakes up, but he doesn’t open his eyes, because he’s afraid they might be wet.

“Arthur,” Eames says quietly as he shifts Arthur’s sleeve, removing the needle. He shifts the PASIV away, probably to the floor, and then he’s close again. “Arthur.”

“Just say it.”

“Oh, _darling_ ,” Eames murmurs, and he kisses one eyelid and then the other, and Arthur finally looks at him.

“She figured it out three years ago,” Arthur says, his throat tight. “And it took me until now. It took me six fucking years, Eames.”

Eames smiles, palm warm on Arthur’s cheek. “I did notice,” he says quietly, smiling down from where he’s leaning one on elbow over Arthur, and maybe there’s a bittersweet twinge to it, and Arthur hates that.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, because he can’t come up with anything else.

“You’re ridiculous,” Eames mutters. “I didn’t wait this long for an apology, love.”

“I know,” Arthur says, and then he repeats, “I’m sorry,” because he can’t help it.

“I’m a very patient person,” Eames reminds him. “But now that we’ve reached this point, darling, making me wait any longer is just cruel.”

“You’re an ass,” Arthur says, and then they’re kissing on his bed, and it’s actually pretty ridiculous how quickly their clothes disappear and to be honest they nearly knock over the lamp on his nightstand in the process but it doesn’t matter because its light bulb hasn’t worked for months anyway and Arthur had been too lazy to change it.

He’ll probably have to fix that soon, though, because Arthur’s bed hasn’t felt like home in years, but when Eames pushes him down and crawls over him and begins to kiss up his stomach, he thinks maybe.

Maybe.


End file.
